


Dance (with me)

by 1thirteen3



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Dancing with the stars - Freeform, Dany is the pro, F/M, I went to the smorgasbord and took a pinch of everything, Jon is a grumpy bean for a bit... but he'll thaw out, Jon is the celeb contestant, Let's cha cha, Let's rumba, Let's salsa and waltz, Modern Westeros, Sansa is a loving and supportive sister, a tonne of romance, a touch of angst, a touch of fluff, alternate universe - modern AU, always HEA though for my jonerys babies, ballroom dancer!dany, ex-military!Jon, how could he not?, television show
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-24
Updated: 2020-11-30
Packaged: 2021-03-10 04:42:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,065
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27697798
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/1thirteen3/pseuds/1thirteen3
Summary: Following a horrific betrayal and a laughable honourable discharge from the military, Jon, lauded as the White Wolf of Westeros Snow, is beleaguered and bitter. Holed up in his flat for the past eight months he has no idea what to do with himself, or where his life is going.One phone call changes that.A phone call inviting him to participate in the new season of WBNs Dancing with the Stars.He thinks the whole thing is preposterous and beneath him, beneath any self-respecting person.But… he needs the money. And… he wants the platform to express his views on the mistreatment of the Free Folk. And… his darling sister Sansa implores him to get out of his rut and back into the land of the living.So, he agrees.Dancing is frivolous. Dancing is childish. Dancing is an absurd way for adults to spend their lives.Well, that’s what he thought…Sometimes one experience, one person, can change all that.
Relationships: Jon Snow/Daenerys Targaryen
Comments: 69
Kudos: 110





	1. The Invitation

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to my next modern AU. I hope you will enjoy it!!
> 
> This fic is much inspired by the phenomenal 'I Wanna Dance With Somebody (Who Loves Me)' by the amazing, writetherest - which has been one of my favourite stories for many, many years. The plot is entirely different. However the setting (a Dancing with the Stars AU) is where I drew the inspiration from.

Dust particles floated listlessly along in the beam of the cold, dying, Autumn sun visible through the cracked and broken blinds at his window.

Idly, Jon wonders where they all land - there were so many of them – before he realizes that he really didn’t give a shit, and so he stops wondering.

He has more important things occupying his mind. Or rather, one important thing. The phone is ringing. The phone is ringing and he doesn’t know why.

It was Wednesday.

No one called him on Wednesday.

His father called on Sundays.

His shrink called on Mondays.

Robb called on Tuesdays.

Sansa called on Thursdays.

Arya called on Fridays.

Sam called on Saturdays.

No one called him on Wednesdays.

He wasn’t sure whether it was because they had all collectively – in the not-so-secret pow wows they all have about him behind his back - realized that he needed a day off from their well meaning, yet smothering support – or whether it was because they had run out of people in the rotation to call him. He supposes once Bran is a little older Bran will call on Wednesdays. But right now, no one calls him on Wednesdays.

And yet, someone is.

But that doesn’t mean he is going to answer it. He is in no mood to talk. He never is anymore. But he certainly in no mood to talk to someone outside of his regular (more like fucking mandatory) scheduled calls.

While letting the unknown number ring itself out to completion he reaches for his crumpled pack of cigarettes lying on his beaten down coffee table, plucking one out and sliding it between his lips.

He flicks his lighter once, twice, three, four, fucking five times to no avail before giving it a shake. The damn thing is out of gas.

He sighs. If there’s one thing he knows it’s that he’s been stagnant, stationary, still for far too long if he manages to make it through a whole lighter. If he were living his life the way he used to, the way he used to be able to, then he would be constantly losing them and buying new ones, or forgetting them at home and buying a new one while out and about.

But he hasn’t been out and about. He’s just been here. In this crappy shithole of a flat. Doing fuck all but smoking and drinking. Endlessly angry, and unable to bring himself to even worry about what it is he is going to do with the rest of his life.

Begrudgingly rising from his couch he pulls open a few drawers, rummaging through them, looking for another lighter. When that search proves fruitless he turns out the pockets of the many dirty and discarded pairs of pants lying about his floor hoping to find one there.

Still without luck he ambles over to the oven and turns the element on, waiting for it to heat and using that to light the cigarette still held between his teeth before flicking it off and moving over towards the window giving a rough pull on the cord attached to the askew blinds, drawing them up – which causes them to crinkle even further out of shape – and taking a long drag, smoke filling his lungs.

The sky is a whirling mixture of pinks, oranges, and reds. It’s going to be a sunny day tomorrow. But he doesn’t see the beauty in the sky, and he doesn’t care about the weather. His day will still be the same tomorrow as it was today, as it was yesterday. He will still be the same.

The sight, if possible, actually manages to make him feel even more fucking agitated so he reaches for his glass of whisky and takes a large gulp. He doesn’t even feel the burn of it any more. That’s another thing he should be worried about if he could ever be bothered to worry about anything.

He takes a moment and tries, really tries, to appreciate the splendour of the sky. After all, he used to love the North, everything about it. He’d been born there, grown up there, lived there his whole life. He used to think it contained the most beautiful landscapes in the known world. But he hated it now. Now when he looked at the North he saw himself: hard, jaggered, broken, unforgiving, and cold. The North had taken and taken from him and he had become the North. It and him were one and the same.

And he hated them both.

His phone begins to ring again, riling his anger and undoing any of the calm that the nicotine and alcohol had managed to seep into his system. Out of the frustrated need to make it stop he grabs the blasted thing and answers.

“What?” he barks roughly to whoever had decided it would be a good idea to try to contact him.

“Hello,” answers a studiously polite male voice, “Am I speaking with Jon Snow, the _White Wolf of Westeros_?” he adds the last part far too cheekily for a stranger.

Jon runs his hand violently through his hair and cannot contain a groan.

When he’d left special ops and been discharged, the Westerosi military, in their eagerness to make a poster boy out of him, had published various details. About him. About his time in service and his time undercover. Including his fucking codename. And the godsdamned media had latched on and went running with it.

“Who wants to know?” he replies gruffly.

The man simply lets out a merry little laugh and says, “I’ll take that as a ‘yes’. Well, Sergeant Snow,”

“It’s just Snow now,” he interrupts, irritated, “I’m not in the military anymore.”

“Very well,” the stranger responds, nonplussed. “My name is Tyrion Lannister and I am the executive producer of Dancing with the Stars for WBN,”

He’s heard of the show, of course. It was a massive cash cow for the Westeros Broadcasting Network. But he had no idea what that had to do with him…

“And we were very much hoping that you would agree to be one of our contestants in the upcoming season.” Says Tyrion eagerly.

What the fuck? Maybe he really had been spending too much time by himself and now he was starting to hallucinate.

“Isn’t that show just for washed up actors trying to remain relevant, and social media personalities clawing for more fame and publicity?” he asks scathingly.

“Certainly not,” replies Tyrion, and he sounds rather offended. Not that Jon gave a fuck. This whole thing was a joke. “We pride ourselves on including influential people from all corners of the social, cultural and political zeitgeist.”

“Whatever.” he grumbles, unimpressed by this Tyrion’s grandstanding. “I don’t dance.”

The man on the other end of the phone had the temerity to chuckle at him and he bristles at the sound.

“I know that. That’s the point. None of our celebrity contestants dance. They…”

“I’m not a fucking celebrity either,” he interrupts him with a growl. Enraged.

Tyrion tsks as though scolding a child, “I’m afraid you are whether you want to be or not. Westeros is rather enamoured with the tale of the dashing young special ops agent tragically wounded in the line of duty only to survive and emerge as a hero. A symbol of endurance, survival, honour and patriotic pride,” his voice had taken on a sarcastic edge which Jon begrudgingly appreciates and is amused by – he thought that the spin the Westerosi Military had put on his story was ludicrous as well. He wasn’t a hero. He was a patsy. And they were using him to promote their own agendas. “Your story has hit every network, every newspaper, every magazine and blog, and the people want more. They want more of _you_. That, Jon Snow, makes you a celebrity.”

“Yeah, well. I don’t want to be a celebrity. I don’t want to be paraded around like some show pony just so your viewers can feel like they actually care about something real.” He snaps back.

“What makes you assume that they don’t care?” Tyrion asks sounding genuinely curious.

He is quickly losing his patience with this ridiculous conversation. “If they were the sort of people who cared then they wouldn’t be wasting their time watching inane pseudo-reality television.” He states firmly and flatly. 

“That,” responds Tyrion, “is an awfully narrow minded point of view. People are perfectly capable of caring about the world and simultaneously enjoying a bit of good natured escapism.”

He snorts – that isn’t exactly in line with his experience of the world. Or of people for that matter.

“I doubt it. And I’m not interested. So…”

“Just let me give you a quick elevator pitch before you hang up on me. Please.”

Jon merely grunts his assent wondering why he isn’t just hanging up on this guy.

“Alright, well, money talks so I’ll start there. You would receive a $125,000 signing bonus, and can make up to $300,000 all up depending on how far you make it through the elimination process. As a contestant you would be paid $50,000 for each of the final two episodes, that’s an additional $100,000, were you to make it that far. And, well, I’ve got a good feeling that you would.”

He balks at the potential total sum. Hell, he’d balked at the figure of the signing bonus alone. All that money just to twirl around like an idiot for two months or so? It does give him cause to hesitate and consider.

He needs the money. It’s true. The military may have discharged him honourably. They may laud him as a hero. They may tout his name in press releases and interviews. But really all they had left him with was a bunch of scars, a jaded opinion of people and of the world, very few skills that were transferrable to life as a civilian, and a piss poor pension that was nowhere near enough to get by on.

For fuck’s sake - not that he would have stayed even if they’d begged - but he hadn’t even _needed_ to be discharged – honourably or otherwise. After eight months of recovery and physical therapy he was in as physically fine shape as he had ever been (if you ignored all the drinking and the smoking).

No, he wasn’t discharged because his body wasn’t fit for service, he was discharged because his opinions didn’t fit with the ethos of the Westerosi Military. And to those crooked bastards an out of line mind was worse, far worse, than an out of line body. The _honourable_ discharge, the medals, the ceremony, it had all been to placate him. All in hopes of shutting him up about what he’d seen and what he thinks. The things that still bother him to this day.

Taking his prolonged silence as potential disinterest Tyrion changes tactics. “Well, if it’s not money that you’re interested in you should know that many contestants come on the show to promote an interest or agenda that is important to them.”

“I don’t have a line of fucking cookbooks in the works if that’s what you’re insinuating.” Jon scoffs.

“That’s not what I’m insinuating at all,” Tyrion’s tone has changed. When he speaks next it is with a solemn seriousness that has Jon taking notice whether he wants to or not.

“I’ve heard rumblings, rumours, that your discharge had more to do with your stand on the abysmal rights allotted to the people north of the Wall than it did with you or your ability to continue serving the country.”

A long silence follows this declaration as he processes what has just been said, and thinks on what he could possibly say in response.

Finally, he coughs to clear his throat and utters a quiet “Aye, it did.”

“Well, would I also be correct in assuming that you continue to have rather strong opinions on this matter?”

“You might be,” he replies evasively. The military can’t touch him. Not really. Not now. Not after proclaiming to the nation that he was a _hero_. He’s a free man. A civilian. He can technically say and do whatever he wants. Yet still he remains hesitant.

“In that case the show would give you the opportunity to share with the country what it is you saw, what it is you think. Gain traction. You could tell the public, the people of Westeros exactly what it is the military is doing, and hiding all the way up there in the North. Our contestants do a lot of interviews.”

He does, he so does want the country to know just how unfairly the Free Folk are being treated… but… but… the idea of doing interviews, the idea of being the _face_ of all that…

“So not only would I have to bloody dance, I’d have to talk to a bunch of tosser reporters as well?”

“Well, yes. Yes, that is a part of it. Promotion is a big deal on the show. But like I said, it would give you a chance to speak about the things that are really important to you.”

He wants to. He aches to tell the truth and actually be heard, but the idea of the platform for that being something as stupid as a television show about dancing does not appeal to him in the slightest.

Before he can get further into his own head he declines Tyrion’s offer and hangs up – but not before Tyrion insists on leaving his number with him _just in case he changes his mind, which he hopes he will._

A few drinks and a few cigarettes later he stumbles his way to bed.

Another day has come and gone and the sun is setting again. Right on time, as always, Sansa calls him.

He answers reasonably quickly.

The truth is, he likes talking to Sansa.

Sansa is safe.

Sansa had really shown her true colours after he’d been injured and discharged. She was then, and still is, always there for him. And even now, eight months later, while she definitely had certain expectations of him like _to start looking after your bloody self, Jon_ , and was stern about those, she was also soothing. She was almost, he was embarrassed to admit, motherly. And something in him that was still twelve years old craved that motherly love, attention, unconditional support and acceptance. But really, one of the reasons that it was probably easiest talking to Sansa was that they hadn’t been particularly close growing up and so they had little to lose between one another, and everything to gain.

Robb. Well, Robb had taken the cushy job working for his dad’s company right out of high school that – however indirectly, _did_ benefit from the lack of rights the Free Folk had. They never talked about it – but the reality of it hung in every silence, and clung to every unspoken word. Robb now had a pretty wife, and a bouncing baby boy of his own. He could tell Robb felt guilty that he had those things while Jon didn’t. He could also tell that Robb was sometimes angry at him that he hadn’t done the same and just taken the same job at Stark Enterprises that he had. He loved Robb, but there was too much unsaid, unspoken between them for him to ever feel _truly_ comfortable when talking to him.

Arya. Poor, darling, beloved Arya. She just wanted her favourite big brother back. When she called she was loud and rambunctious and did everything she could to always be a lot of fun, to always be talking and joking away in order to keep trying to pretend that everything was the same. But everything wasn’t the same. He had changed, and no matter how much he might want to, for both his, and Arya’s sake, he knew he was never going to change back into the person she missed. The person she wished, and pretended she was talking to. It hurt him the most to talk to Arya.

Ned, his father in all but name, well, Ned felt culpable that Jon had joined the army to begin with. He felt he should have done more to persuade him to stay. And, like the father he had always been to him, he felt irrationally responsible for the fact that he hadn’t been there to protect Jon when he’d needed him most. And Ned absolutely _hated_ the way that he was subsisting now. Which hurt and grated. He felt like he had disappointed Ned in the worst of ways. Talking to him felt like being in the principal’s office.

And Sam… Well, Sam had classic, fucking text book, survivor’s guilt. They had been in the same unit and Jon had been injured while he, he hadn’t. And he was always, in his bumbling way, trying to somehow make this up to him – but all he really managed to do was make him angrier and more frustrated. Talking to Sam only reminded him of all the bad things he so desperately wanted to leave behind.

But Sansa, as he said, she felt safe. He could talk to her because she never really knew him before. He wasn’t a _different_ person to her. He could just be himself, as he was now, and she loved and accepted him as such. And, most importantly he wasn’t tossing away the veil of any preconceived ideals she may have had of him.

But today that feeling of safety might have been a mistake because that sense of security had led to him to telling her all about Tyrion Lannister’s ridiculous proposition.

She had absolutely squealed with excitement.

“Oh my Gods, Jon, that’s amazing. You have to do it. You _have_ to do the show.” She’d implored him.

“No I bloody well don’t.” He’d spat, petulant.

“Well, you don’t _have to_ of course, but it would be good for you. Do you know, Aunt Lysa has been asked to be a contestant on it this year too?”

“ _Her_?” he asked, incredulous. “What the fuck has she ever done that’s noteworthy?”

“It’s because of her lifestyle blog.” Sansa said, as though that explained anything.

“You mean the blog that is vehemently anti-vaccination and instead recommends the all encompassing health benefits of breastfeeding children all the way through primary school? Gods, if that’s the calibre of _celebrity_ they want on there I definitely do not want to be counted amongst their numbers.”

“You’re being awfully judgemental, Jon” She reprimanded him in her usual soft but stern way.

Huh, that’s the second time he’d been told something like that in as many days. He didn’t care much for it at all.

“Go on, Jon. You should do it. You’d be great.” She encouraged brightly.

“Are you fucking with me, Sansa?” he all but yelled, “Why the hell would I want to go on a show like that? Why the hell would I want to _dance_? It’s all so bloody…”

“What?” she snapped, “Frivolous? Pointless? Shallow?”

“Yes,” he hissed, frustrated. “All of that. It’s ridiculous. A bunch of grown men and women prancing around in costumes, playing pretend, acting as though everything is bright and beautiful when really the world is shit and they are either delusional morons, or worse, they don’t give a fuck about the world or anyone else in it that isn’t draped in an absurd outfit and fox-trotting all over everyone else’s problems.”

“Wow, Jon, why don’t you tell me how you really feel about it?” she responded drily.

His ears burned with a deluge of shame.

Sansa had been ballroom dancing basically since she was stable enough to stand on her own two, pudgy little feet. And she was still actively involved with all of the Amateur competitions and events held in the North.

“I don’t,” he clears his throat, the apology making his tongue feel thick, “I don’t mean _you,_ Sansa. You’re... you’re going to school. You’re going to be a lawyer. You’re actually going to do something more with your life.”

“Oh,” she was snippy now, and he knew what was coming, “So you just mean my mother then?”

He cringed. He doesn’t know what to say. He doesn’t want to lie… but yes, he does mean Catelyn.

Catelyn Stark, his formidable aunt, had once been the darling of the Amateur ballroom dancing scene of the North. Which would probably be fine but, even long after she’d retired from it, she had never given a damn about anything else. She was absorbed in the fancy, fantasy world of the thing. She had always wanted everything to be perfect. Pretty. A pageant. A show. It was so false, so fake. Everything such a façade. He’d hated it when he’d been a teenager, and now that he was older he hated it even more. It was empty-headed, an absurd way for an adult to live their life when they could be doing something that actually contributed to society.

“I…”

“Forget it, Jon. I’m sorry for snapping at you.”

Gods, he felt guilty then.

She shouldn’t be the one apologising, _he_ should be.

Yes, he didn’t get on with her mother, but that wasn’t Sansa’s fault. Besides, anyone with half a fucking brain cell knows that it is the absolute height of poor manners to insult someone’s mother to their face like that.

“Sansa, I…”

“It’s fine, Jon, I know. But I still really do think you should do the show.”

Despite everything he’d just thought he couldn’t help himself. “Yeah, great. I’m sure your mother would just _love_ that. Another thing for her to sneer at me about. How terrible I’ll be at it.”

Sansa sighed long and hard.

“She doesn’t hate you, Jon. You two just never properly clicked. You were so sad, and angry when you came to live with us. As you had every right to be,” she carries on hastily before he can interrupt her, “But she had five children already, she was rather overwhelmed probably, neither of you made enough of an effort…”

“Look, Sansa,” he says sternly. He wants to be kind, he really does want to, but he just doesn’t think he has it in him properly anymore – not when he’s always so angry. “I know she’s your mum, but she was the adult, I was the child, _she_ should have been the one to make more of an effort.”

“Well, if that’s your logic, you’re a bloody adult now, why don’t you make a bit more of an effort?” She snipes back.

“It’s too late now. The damage is done.”

“It’s never too late for family, Jon.” Sansa implores softly.

“She’s not my family.” He says with a finality that is absolute.

“Fine, if you don’t see it that way then I cannot make you. But _I_ am your family. And I worry about you. You, always alone, holed up in that godawful dingy flat by yourself all day, doing nothing. Or worse, drinking yourself into oblivion. I really think you should do the show Jon, you know, plenty of studies say that dancing is really good for you.”

“I stay in shape, Sansa.”

“I don’t just mean physically. I mean mentally, emotionally. It relieves stress and tension.” She hesitates slightly before adding more quietly, “It’s been shown to reduce depression.”

“I’m not bloody depressed,” he grumbles, sick and tired of that line of thinking. He’s not depressed, he’s _angry_. There’s a difference.

“Aren’t you?”

He takes a long pause looking around his living room which, he has to admit, is an absolute tip. And he knows full well that the rest of his cramped flat looks just as bad.

“No,” he reiterates firmly. “I’m not, I’m just… I’m just…”

“You’re bitter, and you’re angry,” Sansa finishes for him. “And you have every reason to be after the way they treated you. But you can’t spend the rest of your life wallowing about it. That means they win, Jon. You can’t let them win. Go on the show. Use it to talk about the things that matter to you. Make some money to set you up for a future that doesn’t involve drinking yourself into an early grave. _Please_.”

“Sansa…”

“ _Please_ Jon. Please at least think about it. Do it for me. I love you and I worry about you. Do it for the Free Folk who trust you, who need you. But most importantly, do it for _yourself_. Do it to give yourself something to do. Do it for the money so you can build yourself a proper future. Do it to get yourself out of this rut you’ve been in for the past eight months.”

Gods, she sounds so hopeful, so certain that _this_ , this stupid show could be the thing that turns his life around, could be the thing the lifts him up and plants him firmly back on his feet, could be the thing that gives him a reason. He can’t bring himself to disappoint her.

“I’ll think about it Sansy, I promise.”

“That’s all I’m asking,” she replies simply. But he can hear, almost, almost actually _see_ , the smile in her voice at the return of the nickname he had always called her when they were kids.

They talk for a little longer, and when they’ve hung up he pours himself a modest two fingers of whiskey, sits himself down on the couch and thinks.

He _does_ need the money. And holy shit is it good money.

He _does_ want to give a voice to the Free Folk who none of the mainstream media will go near.

And maybe, maybe he _does_ need something to do with himself.

He would never have picked dancing.

Dancing is silly, childish, trivial…

But apparently dancing had picked him.

He brings up Tyrion Lannister’s number and hits dial.

“Yes? This is Tyrion Lannister.” Comes a professional voice.

“Uh, hello, umm, this is Jon Snow, we spoke yesterday,” he mumbles, feeling oddly nervous.

“Ah, Jon, how wonderful to hear from you again. Can I perhaps be so bold as to presume that this call means that you’ll…”

“Aye, I’ll do the bloody show.”

“Fantastic,” Tyrion exclaims. “I’m very pleased. Very pleased indeed. This is spectacular news. I’ll email you your contract and everything that you need to know. Ah,” he sighs happily, “yes, this is good. Very good. I have the _perfect_ partner for you. Hmmmm,” he hums, and it sound very much like he is plotting. “Yes, oh, yes, this is going to be spectacular indeed.”


	2. The Meeting

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to CinnamonBurns, and ThatBishLizzie - the support you both provide me is unrepayable. But I humbly thank you all the same. Love you guys xxx

As he expected, Sansa was absolutely _thrilled_ that he had agreed to do the show. 

Kindly, she looks over his contract for him and she is incredibly impressed by the freedom of speech, and the various comforts and perks allotted to him for the duration of his time on the show. Though she does make it a point to outline to him, rather sternly, how demanding, how gruelling, his schedule is going to be.

Rehearsals every day. A show every week. And on top of all that, interviews, audiences with the judges and the occasional public appearance.

He tries not to let the pressure of that overwhelm him. After all, he’d done all but nothing for the past eight months. This is certainly going to be a change of pace for him.

But Sansa is encouraging. She assures him that she knows, she just _knows,_ that he can do it.

Sometimes she even manages to make him believe her for a moment or two.

To help him out, or _to give him a secret, wee head start,_ as she puts it conspiratorially, she even starts coming over a few nights every week demanding that she will teach him, at the very least, the basics of ballroom dancing.

Some arm positions, a little footwork.

He bumbles his way through it feeling odd and clumsy, losing his temper more than once at the whole thing. Though, thankfully, Sansa has the patience of a saint with both his ineptitude, and his sour attitude. He counts himself lucky for that. He seriously doubts that his partner will have the same patience. They’re all in it to win it after all, aren’t they?

The weeks fly by. And, while he would not consider himself a man reborn, he does take some comfort in the fact that he has a least the semblance of a purpose now. However inane that purpose might be.

The rest of his family had been surprised by his announcement that he was going to take part in the show.

Of course they had all rushed to be, and sound supportive. Though none of them were as supportive as Sansa because behind _their_ support he could sense their incredulity. Their lack of belief that _this_ , this silly thing would help him out – he could hear that behind their support they were just glad that he was leaving his flat. They didn’t really care what it was that was causing him to do so.

But Sansa believed. Sansa truly believed that this would be good for him. And she was happy and willing to do anything she could to make that belief a reality.

Remarkably, to his complete astonishment, (he’d suspected Sana’s involvement, though she had vehemently denied any knowledge of it, and he had to admit she was pretty convincing in her denial) he had also received a rather unexpected text from his Aunt Catelyn. It was brusque. To the point. Much like Catelyn always was with him. It simply read: ‘Best of luck on the show. Lysa has some experience but she’s not a strong, young man with something to prove, something important to say – she’ll certainly have some competition in you. I’ll be watching closely. Break a leg. Aunt C.’

He’d been flat on his back astonished, truth be told. Though, admittedly, Sansa had had to explain to him that ‘break a leg’ was a common expression of good luck in the performing arts, and not a not-at-all-veiled hope / wish / prayer that he’d actually injure himself.

He refused to admit to himself that he was somewhat touched by the gesture though.

And he hadn’t texted back.

Then, soon enough, he was on a flight headed towards Kings Landing. Towards the show. Towards the fame he didn’t ask for, nor want, but felt obliged to use for the sake of the Free Folk. Felt he needed to use to help himself in whatever way it was that Sansa thought it was possible for him to do.

As he makes his way through the arrivals gate and spots a man in a sharp suit holding a sign with his name on it he marvels at how much his life has already changed in the past few weeks since agreeing to take part in this ridiculous show.

A chauffeur? He really was being given the five-star, celebrity treatment.

He is driven to a fancy looking apartment complex and shown to the fully furnished, one bedroom unit that will be his for the duration of his time on the show, however long that ends up being. 

The place is gorgeous. Clean, modern, neat and tidy. Nothing like his crappy flat in the North. Perhaps he _can_ make himself over into something new, shiny and bright? He doubts it. But he hopes it all the same.

Once left alone, he sits down on the comfortable four seater couch (sans a glass of whiskey – Sansa had been studiously lowering his intake since he’d accepted the show’s offer. He can’t say he feels better for it, but he certainly doesn’t feel worse), and thinks.

Kings Landing is hot and vibrant. So unlike the North.

It’s hard to believe, true though it may be, but, only a year ago this would have made him itchy and uncomfortable. It would have made him feel out of place. Really, it does make him feel out of place, but there is a small part of him that is hoping, desperately hoping, that some of that warmth and vibrancy is going to rub off on him. Seep into his bones. Thaw out even a little bit of the anger and misery that feels permanently embedded there. 

Surprisingly, Tyrion Lannister himself visits him later in the evening to explain what is to come.

Thankfully, his schedule for the first week is light. This will give him the chance and the opportunity to ease and settle into his new surroundings.

Tomorrow will be spent with the wardrobe department getting preliminary measurements done - which, thank the gods, will not require him being on camera.

He’s still not sure how he’s going to do on camera.

Then, the next day, well, the next day he will be meeting his partner for the first time. This, unfortunately, and _no I can’t get you out of it, Jon. The first meetings are essential,_ will be filmed.

All of it. 

Tyrion tries, in his jovial way, to explain the necessity:

They like the interactions to be as organic and unedited as possible. For the narratives and relationships between the partners to develop by themselves without external meddling.

Tyrion is infuriatingly close lipped about who his partner will be. Not that it really matters, he supposes. One ballroom dancer is as superfluous to the world as the next. And it’s not as though he’d know or recognise who they were even if Tyrion had told him.

He may have allowed Sansa to try to teach him a basic box step, but he’d absolutely drawn the line at watching the show with her. He didn’t have time for such nonsense.

Despite himself he sleeps surprisingly well that first night, despite the fact that he still feels a huge amount of dread about exactly what it is he has signed himself up for. Perhaps his sub-conscious (or maybe it was just the soothing pep-talk from Sansa?) allows him to rest with a kernel of hope that this maybe _was_ the right decision to make.

His wardrobe fittings go rather well. All of the people there were kind, unassuming and professional.

Though, they did have an appraising eye that made him feel slightly uncomfortable. And he didn’t take particularly well to standing there like a mannequin while a bunch of strangers cooed and wondered over what the best way to dress him would be. But at least they were unobtrusive and the entire process involved absolutely no input from him.

Unlike tomorrow. Tomorrow he will have to actually be engaged.

Tomorrow he will meet his partner and the real work will begin.

He is dreading tomorrow.

Thick doubt, oozing over him like molasses, suffocates him about tomorrow.

He’s not a bloody prancing idiot.

He doesn’t have the patience for those that are.

Again, surprisingly Tyrion arrives in the morning to escort him to the studio where he will meet his partner and begin preliminary training and rehearsals.

“Do you this with all the contestants?” Jon asks him warily. He’s not entirely sure what the role of an executive producer is, but he didn’t think that Tyrion Lannister would be this involved. 

“Hmmmm?” he replies, distracted. Fiddling with his phone next to him in the back seat of the car driving them to the space. “Oh, yes and no.” he answers vaguely, much to Jon’s frustration. He cannot get a read on this man’s motives or agendas – which is particularly infuriating for him because a large part of his success in the military had been to do with his ability to read other people – he hates the idea that some flouncy, media-type could one up him in this.

“I do with some. But not all. I like to get a feel for how the season is going to play out and honestly, I haven’t quite got the measure of you yet. You’re a bit of a wild card, so I figured coming with you today would be a good start.” That makes him feel a little better, at least he is as much a mystery to this Tyrion as Tyrion is to him.

“Besides, I like your partner, seeing her is always a pleasure.” 

“And you still won’t tell me anything about her?” he asks gruffly, already aware of what the answer will be.

“Oh no,” Tyrion exclaims with a wink, “No, no, no. Some things have to be played out for the camera.”

He gets the sinking feeling that Tyrion is taking perverse pleasure out of this. It makes him dread meeting his partner all the more.

They arrive a short time later at a vast, expansive building that Tyrion tells him contains all of the show’s rehearsal spaces.

It is rather unimpressive from the outside, but inside it is a flurry of activity.

He sees a mass of other people, some with cameras, some without. Some looking right at home (he assumes they are part of the crew), some looking like he feels – like they’re going to be sick – (he assumes they might be some of the other contestants).

Amongst the mess of bodies in the hallways a very tall, handsome, well-built, short haired blonde woman with a look of trepidation in her strikingly blue eyes looks towards him and does a double take. She nods at him briefly, but very respectfully. He doesn’t know who she is, but she seems to know him.

It’s alarming really. That people seem to know him.

Another man, clearly a contestant but with an air of confidence that borders on the sociopathic, spies him and gives him a deep (very cinematographic – and therefore, very inaccurate) military salute. Jon hates him on sight. His eyes look crazed, and he can tell that the guy thinks rather a lot of himself. Probably like everyone else who agreed to come on this damn show.

He doesn’t spot Catelyn’s sister, Lysa, for which he is inordinately grateful. That bitch hated him as much as he hates her. He doesn’t think he could deal with one of her glares right before going in to all this.

Eventually, they arrive outside a door and Tyrion stops them saying that this is his assigned rehearsal space.

He gives Jon a pat on the shoulder and wishes him luck. He also, not at all subtly, tries to remind him to be on his best behaviour.

Whatever, he’s here for his own reasons. He’ll do things his own way. On his own terms. The show wanted him? Well, they will get _him._ He’s not going to pretend to be something he’s not.

Then Tyrion walks into the room with one of the two camera men assigned to Jon - _to get the angle of him entering_ , apparently - leaving him outside with the other to wait for the signal for him to walk into the room and meet his partner.

An assistant comes up to him and begins pulling and tugging at his t-shirt, fitting him with a mic. He fucking hates being fussed over like this but he puts up with it, barely, by gritting his teeth.

The remaining camera man is milling around and it is making him incredibly anxious and self conscious. He knows it’s going to take him a while to get used to having cameras constantly shoved in his face, microphones recording his every word. His every move documented. In fact, he doubts he’ll ever get used to it at all.

He’s not a showman. Some days he can barely stand looking at himself. What the fuck is he doing here?

Suddenly, after what feels like no time. After what is definitely not enough time, they get the signal and Jon is covertly told to open the door and greet his partner for the season.

Slowly, nervously, he opens the door, camera trailing behind him, and walks into the rehearsal room.

It’s a small, but impressive space. Three of the four walls are (rather vainly, he thinks) floor to ceiling mirrors. Horrifyingly, he realises with his razor sharp, trained and honed ability to read a room on a moments notice, if he looks at just the right spot he can see dozens of his own stricken, anxious face reflected back at him.

But he doesn’t have time to focus on it for long.

“Hello,” cries a bright, enthusiastic voice.

He turns his head in its direction and sees a tiny woman in skin tight athletic gear with long, silver blonde hair pulled tight atop her head in a high, bouncing ponytail, a beaming smile on her face, bounding energetically towards him.

Gods, she looks like a fucking peppy cheerleader. Is this really who is going to have to...

“I’m Dany,” she says smiling even wider, if that was fucking at all possible. “I’ll be your dance partner for the season.” 

He tries to contain a groan. He does. He really does. He thought he’d managed to keep it internal, but the slight, confused twitch of her brow lets him know that he’d made the sound out loud.

Still, she keeps her sparkling, animated smile in place. For fuck’s sake. Of all the people they could have placed him with, they paired him with Ballroom fucking Dancer Barbie.

“It’s lovely to meet you, Jon.” She says, bouncing on the balls of her feet like a child, “I can’t wait to get started working together” she continues enthusiastically as though she can’t see the frustration, and trepidation written all over his face.

Perhaps she can’t? Perhaps she really is that vacuous? 

She _is_ rather pretty, he has to admit. But he supposes she would have to be – her entire career, her entire self-worth probably, being reliant on the way she looks.

Then, horrifyingly, still bouncy and eager, she wraps her arms around him in a hug.

He squirms, and shifts, and wriggles, and moves his way out of it instantly. And when he escapes he sees a slightly hurt, but mainly confused look in her eyes.

“I don’t like to be touched,” he explains in a gruff bark of a voice.

“Oh,” she replies sounding a little surprised and laughing softly. “Well, I can understand that of course, we don’t know one another yet, but we will be working closely together, and I’m afraid that dancing with a partner does require rather a lot of touching.” Her eyes are light and joking, but this is the furthest thing from a joke to him.

He hadn’t thought this through. He shouldn’t be here. He doesn’t want to be here. Doesn’t want to be getting all up close and personal with an empty headed, pretty stranger.

He doesn’t say anything in response so, after a long, awkward moment of silence this Dany, his _dance partner,_ soldiers on bravely, smile still plastered firmly to her face,

“Well, today is just for us to meet.” She explains in a sweet, comforting voice that would probably calm him if he were to let it. But he doesn’t. “We won’t know what type of dance we’ll be doing or what our music will be until tomorrow, so typically we use this time to get to know one another a bit, and form something of a relationship because trust is very important in ballroom dancing.”

Trust. That is something he is dreading and something he doesn’t think he can give. Not now. Not to some silly, tiny, little prancing stranger. He doesn’t trust any more.

“So today I’ll just begin by teaching you a little technique. A few basic steps and moves that are sure to come up later. Is that okay?”

She’s peering at him now with a very marked look of concern in her wide, violet eyes. It should make him feel better, should make him feel cared about and supported, but it only serves to make him feel angry, defensive, and annoyed with himself, and with her.

“And since you’re so... adverse to touching,” she continues kindly – the kindness grates, “there are a number of things we can start with before we make our way up to that. Shall we begin there?

He doesn’t answer her. Not verbally. He simply nods curtly in response.

In the corner he can see Tyrion taking some kind of notes. He looks rather disappointed. But he refuses to think about that.

“Well, alright then,” This Dany, it seems, is a ball of energy and excitement.

She walks into the centre of the room and positions herself in front of one of the many large mirrors. He follows her, cautiously, assuming that that is what he is supposed to do. Based on the grateful smile she aims at him he was correct in thinking so.

“So, there are many different types of ballroom dancing, and we’ll get a chance to try all of them out. Hopefully,” she grins at him as though she is offering him a grand treat. “So long as we’re not eliminated too early that is.” She winks at him.

“Some of the types will require your lines and movements to be soft, gentle and fluid.” He watches, enraptured despite himself, as she demonstrates her words with actions. Her arms floating through the air gracefully, her feet gliding so lightly it barely seems like they are touching the floor, her back arching tenderly. “Like that.” She clarifies. “Others involve harder, sharper, more aggressive actions,” she punctuates these words with decisive, determined, forceful swipes of her arms and high, _high,_ kicks of her legs. “Like that. While some others call for passionate sensuality.” and then she is rolling her hips, her head tilting back, her hands sliding over and across her firm, little body. “Like that. You know what I mean?”

He’s more than a little bit speechless, and still a little hung up on the entirely erotic way her body moved, in all three of the states she had mentioned, to answer even if he wanted to. 

She, thankfully, mistakes his gaping as him being overwhelmed by how much it all is.

“But there’s nothing to worry about.” she assures him kindly. “For the most part the core technique and basic arm and leg movements are the same. And that’s where we’ll start. With the foundations. The building blocks. Are you ready?”

He simply nods at her. This whole thing is ridiculous. He always knew it was going to be ridiculous. However he had _not_ anticipated that it was also going to be somewhat arousing.

_That_ particular revelation was an entirely unwelcome one.

“Alright, good,” she encourages. Fuck, why does she have to be so chirpy and relentless? “Before we begin, do you have any experience dancing?”

“No.” he coughs out gruffly, probably rudely. But he doesn’t care. Whatever it is he just felt he is going to quash it. 

“So you have never danced before?” Urgh, she really is relentless.

“No.” More gruffly. More firmly.

“Nothing?” she giggles. Fucking giggles. “Not even at a high school ball?”

“No.” Gods can this just be done with?

He can see in the mirror that she is looking at him appraisingly.

“You’re not much of a talker are you, Jon?” Dany enquires, softly. She’s not demanding, she sounds more curious and cautious than anything. But he doesn’t care. He’s uncomfortable and he didn’t come here to be interrogated.

“No.”

From the corner of his eye he can see Tyrion shaking his head ruefully at him.

Great.

“No, I’m not” he amends as though adding those two words made even the slightest bit of difference. 

Dany simply rolls her eyes but her smile remains constantly on her lips. “Sorry for the third degree,” she apologises. “I just need to get an idea of where I need to start with you. It’s the beginning I guess. But that’s good. That’s fun. It’s best really. It means you don’t have any bad habits that might need breaking.”

He just nods at her again. He’s beginning to feel like a bobble head doll. He knows that there are cameras on them, he knows that this interaction is going to be part of the show, he knows that his family would probably be appalled by his lack of manners, he knows that the judges will see this… but, well, fuck, he doesn’t know what. He wasn’t really expecting anything, but somehow this is not what he expected at all.

“Alright, let’s begin with some basic arm positions. Because you’re not comfortable touching right now,” gods, why is she being so damn considerate? Or is she just acting that way for the cameras? “I’ll show you the male arm positions, just copy me as best you can, okay?”

And so, she puts on some instrumental music with a clear, solid beat, and over the next half hour or so Dany puts him through his paces.

She teaches him lines, and hold positions.

She corrects his posture.

He can tell she is struggling. He can tell she is getting frustrated.

Whenever he gets something wrong she, seemingly unconsciously, gravitates towards him, reaching for him as though to grasp him and fix something about his form, or his shape. But each time she stops herself.

He should be grateful that she is respecting his boundaries. But all he really feels is ridiculous with his arms lifted aloft, pretending to hold some invisible partner, pretending to hold _her_ really – because she is who he is going to end up holding.

He feels awkward and ungainly standing next to her supine form which, through some kind of black magic, can bend, and twist and shape itself into whatever she wants or needs to it be in any particular moment.

He already knew that dancing was stupid, but this is probably the stupidest he’s ever felt. And the whole damn fiasco is being captured on camera to be broadcast over the entirety of Westeros. What the fuck was he thinking? What the fuck will his old unit, his old command think of him when they see him like this?

Instead of reaching out and grabbing him, like she is so clearly struggling not to do, Dany keeps up an endless stream of chatter. She vigourously praises his natural affinity for arm lines (he’ll have to thank Sansa for that – it’s not a natural affinity at all, his sister had basically beaten those lines into him), and earnestly encourages his every move and attempt. Always telling him how _great_ he is doing. Always making it seem like his progress from a 90 degree elbow, to a solid 95 degree elbow is the most miraculous achievement in human history.

He hates it.

They eventually move on from lines to footwork. On top of the box step that Sansa has shown him - _Wow, Jon, you’re a natural_ Dany had exclaimed, while he’d just scowled at her. Following her instructions as he was contractually obliged to – he was taught time steps, side steps, the damn difficult promenade step. The basic forward, the basic back. The four step, the progressive side step, and a basic spot turn.

He’s panting after a time and Dany, thankfully, suggests that they take a break.

He ambles over to the side where his gear bag had been laid down for him, and, to his dismay, his relentless partner, and the cameras, follow.

He gulps down some water as Dany sinks to the floor in a sinuous stretch.

After a few moments of heavenly silence she starts up again.

“Can I ask you something?” Dany asks him somewhat hesitantly.

“I don’t suppose I can stop you.” He grumbles. She’d been chattering essentially non-stop since he walked in the door, if he knew how to shut her up he would have done it a long time ago.

“Why did you agree to come on the show? I don’t mean any offence, but you don’t seem very enthusiastic about it.”

He barks out an unamused laugh, “I think you’re plenty enthusiastic for the both of us.”

She smiles at him. Again. Though, this one is not so bright. It’s more considered. “Well, to be fair, this is my job and I love what I do. Of course I’m enthusiastic.”

“And it never occurs to you that your job is pretty ridiculous? Living in an absurd fantasy dream-land, ignoring the harsh reality of the world with sequins and spinning?” He can’t help himself. He’s had enough. Today was the earliest he’s woken up in eight months, and now he is being put through his paces and subjected to unceasing cheerfulness by some pretty, pampered, little, dancing queen.

At his response she frowns at him, thoughtful. Finally, she replies carefully but firmly.

“Dreams, fantasy, escapism, they’ve always helped people cope with the dismal reality of the world. Sometimes,” she sucks in a sharp breath that has him, despite himself, a little bit curious,” Sometimes they’re the only thing that keeps people alive. The thought of something different, something better. Imagining something different, something better. It’s not absurd. It’s a coping mechanism. Why would you begrudge people a way to cope? Her voice, so kind and patient up until this point has taken on a sharp, critical edge. Her eyes, so kind up until this point look indignant.

This, this he can deal with. He doesn’t even notice the cameras. He’s focused on the conversation in front of him. “I think people should face their problems, not hide behind something else.” He says. And he believes it. He’s only on this meaningless show to attract notice to a _real_ problem. He’s not hiding behind anything.

To his surprise, Dany scoffs and looks extremely annoyed for the first time since he met her. He’d thought she only had three settings: Smile. Dance. Look pretty.

“It sounds to me like you think that everyone should deal with their problems the same way that you do. But people aren’t like that.” she insists. “Everyone is different. Different people cope in different ways. For some people dancing can give them that,” gods she sounds passionate, but it won’t sway him, “You can’t find a culture in the world that doesn’t dance in some form or another. It’s a universal language. It ties people together. It creates a _family_ amongst strangers. To _you_ it might seem like hiding, but to some people it is important. Some people like to, some people _need_ to escape.”

“Some people are delusional, and cowards.” He grunts.

He can see an angry fire burning hot in her eyes but she doesn’t respond to what he just said. Instead she punishes him by calling an end to their break and making him go over the godsdamned promenade step for the millionth fucking time.

Blessedly, finally, Dany calls it and their rehearsal time comes to an end. Though the fucking cameras are still rolling. Of course.

He limps back over to his back to take another large gulp of water. He’s sweaty and exhausted.

He is in good shape. He’s always been in good shape. But dancing requires a different kind of fitness he’s beginning to realise. It requires muscles he’s never worked out before and, to be honest, never even knew he had. He knows he’ll be aching tomorrow.

He has just finished taking another long pull of water – absolutely, desperately craving a long pull of a cigarette when he gets back to his unit, when Dany approaches him – the cameras surrounding them like they have been all morning.

“You know, you never answered my question before.” she begins inquisitively. Why, for the love of the gods is the woman so hell bent on asking him things?

“Why _did_ you come on the show?”

“That’s none of your business.” He replies tersely.

“Well,” she says and her voice is a tad snippy now. It seems he’s finally worn on her patience. “It is actually. Part of my job is to help you get the most out of this experience that you possibly can, and I can’t do that if I don’t know what it is you want to get out of it.”

“Yeah well, you can’t help. I don’t need your help.” he says, his voice snippier than hers could ever hope to be, he’s sure.

“Okay.” She replies simply.

“That’s it?” he asks. He’s not surprised, these people are as superficial as their chosen career path, but… she had spent a lot of time talking with him and haranguing him today… maybe he _is_ a little bit surprised. “Okay? You just give up on your job that easily? He finishes scathingly. Not that he _really, truly,_ expected anything else, but still, it rankles him.

In return Dany smiles somewhat secretly, “No, I mean ‘okay’ as in I can wait and let you tell me in your own time when you’re more comfortable doing so.”

“Yeah, well, don’t hold your breath” he grunts at her.

In response her eyes alight with a blazing challenge that is actually simultaneously somewhat beautiful and terrifying to behold, but she doesn’t reply. Instead she simply smiles cheekily at him before sucking in a comically huge breath, puffing out her cheeks and pursing her lips closed before she turns away and walks over to where Tyrion Lannister is still perched, watching them through a monitor. Via the multitude of mirrors he can see her maintaining the ridiculous ( _not endearing, not endearing_ ), facial expression until she reaches the producer, before she drops it for a kind smile to listen attentively to what it is he is saying to her.

He really, really doesn’t know what to make this woman…

But he doesn’t have time now to ponder it.

Abruptly, the camera man, Jorah or whatever his name is, calls it a wrap for the day and someone comes over and begins fussing with him, taking off his mic and reminding him of his schedule for the upcoming week.

He hates being fussed with.

He wonders for the umpteenth time why he agreed to this charade in the first place. 

He glances over again, somehow drawn to do so, and sees Dany with her hand on Tyrion’s shoulder, still smiling at him and shaking her head softly. She seems to be reassuring him of something.

Though, he doesn’t have much time to dwell on what that might mean. He’s being hustled into another, smaller room with two chairs for his post-rehearsal interview.

He lowers himself into the chair uncomfortably, his muscles already aching a little, and waits as the camera is set up and focused on him.

“So,” asks the interviewer, “what did you think of your first day?”

“It was alright,” he shrugs. He knows he has to do these things, but that doesn’t mean he has to be enthusiastic about it.

“You’ve never danced before, is that right?”

“That’s right.”

“I’ve been told that your Aunt is also a contestant on the show, that must be nice, to have a family member here with you?”

Urgh, of course they’d bring that up. These people live for drama.

“She’s not my Aunt. She’s the sister of my cousin’s mother.”

“Right. Okay.”

Well, at least he had managed to effectively shut that particular line of questioning down. Though he imagines he will get some flak for it from his relatives when this airs in a couple of weeks.

“And you’re from the North, correct? Ex- military, special ops, a national hero?”

Fuck, he came on this show so that he could speak openly about the Free Folk. That was the platform he wanted. That was what he wanted to talk about. Not this inane nonsense.

“I’m from the North, yes. And, yes, I was in the military.”

“Okay… So, you met your partner today, Daenerys. What do you think of her?”

Daenerys? Was that her full name? it was pretty ( _like her –_ shut up, brain). But somehow he thought ‘Dany’ suited her better.

“I think that,” he begins, hesitating for the first time during this interview, “I think that she certainly seems to think that what she’s doing is important”

“And you don’t?”

He scowls.

“I just think there are more important things than make believe” he asserts firmly. This he will not back down on.

“Well, do you think that you two will get on for the duration of the show?”

“I’m here for a reason. I suppose I need her for that reason. The rest is immaterial as far as I am concerned.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, good - now the first two, necessary (but I know can be somewhat boring and annoying), chapters are out of the way. From here on it is a different ride.
> 
> Next time: We meet the other contestants and professionals. We meet the judges. Jon and Dany do some promo photoshoots

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading, I would love to hear your thoughts.


End file.
